The Things We Leave Behind

When you are a child, you cannot imagine that there are things that you love that you would ever break from. They make you happy, and that is enough. But as we get older even the things we love the most cannot always bear the weight of expectations. So, they get cast off to the ash heap of life.

There are things that I have loved that I abandoned. Probably more than I like to admit, because doing so would scratch at a wound that I skillfully bandaged and tried to nurse away.

But if I allow myself to go to that place, dance is always lying there in wait. It is probably because of the outsized role it played in my life from early childhood through adolescence. So many of my memories of growing up are inextricably linked to the classes, the recitals and the competitions that dotted those years.

Pieces of my life come back to me in flashes of routines, costumes and music. The black leotard, pink tights and hair fastened into a tight bun. Two little giggling girls who always seemed to be getting into trouble in class. A shy child learning to move with grace and express herself. So much of my life existed within the confines of the studio, and so much of who I am was cultivated there.

But a dancer’s career is a short and uncertain one. As I got closer to college decisions had to be made about my path in life. I had neither the body of a ballerina nor the talent to go professional, so I let it go.

For years, I locked that part of myself away. I went to college and studied public relations and economics. I moved across the country and became a professional with a respectable job. I let go of who I was for who I thought I was supposed to be.

Yet, no matter where I went--whether to college or moving across the country from Florida to San Francisco--my dance shoes always came with me. For over a decade my ballet slippers have stayed in their blue silk bag on a hook in my closet. I was all but convinced that my dancing days were behind me when a friend suggested I sign up for a class called ‘fat burning ballet.’

The prospect of attending a dance class stirred something inside of me that had long been dormant. But there was also the fear of being bad, which seemed probable after years without practice.

But dance is the language of the body, and it is the only one I have ever spoken with any fluency. And even after all the years of neglect, I hadn’t forgotten the words. I am older now, and my body is softer. I don’t kick as high, and my leaps don’t float in the air like they used to, but I was amazed by how much was still available to me. It had always been there deep in the recesses of my mind waiting for me to awaken it.

As we get older, there seems to be less time for doing the things we once loved. We cast them off in favor of practicality, because the cost can seem too high when there is not some greater payoff. But our hobbies are what add color to our life, and they make us who we are. It is shame that so many of us think that is a privilege only for the young.

In matters of the heart, maybe the lucky ones are those who do what they love regardless of whether they are successful or even good at it. I will never be a ballerina, at least not a professional one. But I can still dance for the unabashed joy of it.